How To Treat Anxiety
by SetFireToEverybody
Summary: Bones is getting quite a few patients with anxiety and homesickness, and he has to treat one who is having a really bad time. Based on a prompt. I tried.


_AN: Using the Star Trek prompt generator. The character I got was Leonard 'Bones' McCoy, theme A is the needs of the many and/or the few, theme B is breaking point, object is the tricorder, location is the sickbay, emotion/feeling is generosity, and the trope/cliché is what is this thing you call 'love'? Hopefully I can do this prompt some justice. Regardless, I tried. I also wrote this at around 3-4 AM, so if there are any issues I may come back and read this later. If not, please PM me if there are mistakes/things I can improve on. Thank you. _

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It was in the first week of being aboard the Enterprise that some of the crew members started to get homesick and have anxiety attacks.

Of course, this was all expected- they _would _be on a five year journey.

And who was in charge of taking care of all these anxious people?

Who was in charge of handing out pills like they were candy?

Leonard McCoy- or Bones, as Kirk so graciously referred to him.

To be honest, Bones was growing a bit tired of the whole scene of anxious people, but he knew that this is what he had signed up for, but he wished things would get a bit serious every once in a while.

Not that Bones was arrogant, but he thought that he could be doing so much more in the sick bay and well, giving out pills and being a pharmacist was not what he had been training for, nor looking forward to.

Nurses were tending to some engineering students, who were already stressing out and getting sick because of it.

"Doctor McCoy," A nurse called from the sickbay doors, pulling me through as she walked in.

I was tense, Bones could see that from a mile away, and I was breathing heavily.

Wheezing maybe.

Another one with an anxiety attack?

Definitely.

"Can you take her?" The nurse asked worriedly, and McCoy nodded, jumping up and grabbing me and leading me off to the far right of the sick bay.

He helped me up on the biobed, quickly going over me with his tricorder to confirm the anxiety attack.

My heart rate was through the roof, my breathing was far from steady, and I was sweating and shaking and in obvious discomfort.

Bones set the tricorder down and rested his hands on my shoulders, making me continue to shake and whine in protest.

I didn't want anyone near me, I just wanted to be off this ship and I wanted to go home right now.

Homesickness and stress from being a red shirt was not what I had signed up for, and it was something I wasn't warned about before boarding the Enterprise.

Maybe it was a note that wasn't in Starfleet regulations, but more of something you found out from experience.

Either way, I did not get the memo.

"Look at me," The doctor spoke in a firm voice.

I couldn't find myself to do it, I really couldn't.

He grabbed my chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting my head up to look at him.

I felt tears stinging the corners of my eyes and I was still wheezing, my fingers digging into the biobed.

Bones had gone through the steps mentally, first; find the person a quiet place.

Bones knew that this was calming to a person and would sort of dilute their mind from other unnecessary craziness going on.

He also knew that sitting would be best, so he had already enforced that, but then he also knew that he had to make an attempt to get the patient some water and have them try to drink it.

Bones turned to look up in some cabinets, finding bottles of water and giving one to me.

"Try and drink it." He suggested.

I took the bottle in shaky hands, unscrewing the top a bit slowly and sipping it in between wheezes and gasps.

Now it was time to focus on the breathing.

Bones slid a chair over so that it was in front of me, and he took a seat quickly.

He wanted to get this done as efficiently as possible, not as fast as possible.

He gently took my hands, holding my fingertips and gently running his thumbs up and down the length of my fingers.

"Now, breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth." Bones spoke calmly and watched me, making sure that I was trying.

And I was, but it wasn't really working.

I would let out a choking sound or a gasp or a sob, trying to breathe.

"Watch me," He said, breathing in drastically through his nose, then letting it all out through his mouth.

Slow, careful motions.

I nodded, copying him as best as I possibly could, eventually getting it down.

My wheezing was not as frequent and he had definitely calmed me down significantly.

"Good, good, keep doing that." Bones said, before standing up and returning to those shelves.

I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing while he wet a washcloth with cold water, wringing it out until it was only damp.

"Lay down, please," He had to help me a bit, resting his hand on my back and helping me slowly lower my body to the biobed.

"This should help with comfort." He laid the damp, cold washcloth across my hot forehead and pressed down gently to assure contact with the skin.

I was still trying out those breathing techniques, and the corner of his lips twitched into a small smile.

"You still holding up alright, kid?" He asked me, and I nodded slowly, not very sure of the answer.

I mean, I felt like I was doing much better than earlier, but still.

McCoy knew what to do next, and although he didn't usually get personal with patients, he noted that I had a serious attack and he simply found the curiosity to ask what had happened.

He took his place in the chair again.

"Do you have any idea what caused the attack, miss?"

"H-Homesick, stress," I stammered, picking up the cold rag and dragging it along my sweat-covered face.

There was a brief silence.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Now, he honestly never asked these questions, but I was young and a red shirt, so this whole out of the same galaxy and always having the risk of dying thing was probably a lot on me, or so he figured.

And to be honest, he hit the nail on the head with that one.

I had heard about all the other engineers and whatnot- after all, Klingon fleets tended to fire straight at the engine where, guess what?

They fired at the place where hundreds of people worked.

And well, I had been told 'red is dead' too many times.

But there was a lack of students attempting to go into engineering, so I volunteered.

And yes, it was incredibly stressful.

So was being so far away from home.

So that would probably be the root of the problem.

I shook my head no, swallowing my words and letting out a soft sigh.

"My only diagnosis for you is that you hit your breaking point. From school to here almost immediately can put quite a bit of stress on someone. Just, take it easy, okay?" McCoy said.

He stood from the chair and put it away, and started for another part of the sickbay.

"Wait, doctor," I started, causing him to stop and turn to look at me.

"Yes?"

"I wanted to say," I took a breath, making sure that I was okay to talk and didn't start freaking out again.

"Thank you."

McCoy smiled slightly. "No one ever thanks me, kid."

"You may as well have saved my life, doctor."

"I don't think that you could have died from an anxiety attack."

"Well I couldn't breathe, and I felt like I was suffocating and like I was going to pass out but if you hadn't helped me then I could have."

McCoy shook his head slightly. "Don't mention it."

Another silence.

"What's your name, sir?" I asked.

The doctor made his way over to me, standing beside the biobed.

"McCoy, Leonard McCoy." He held out his hand for me to shake.

I did so. "I'm (y/n.)"

"It's nice to meet you, (y/n), glad I could be of your assistance today."

"Thank you." I felt like he didn't hear it enough and maybe he just needed to know that I was, in fact, thankful for him.

McCoy offered another smile. "Of course."

He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead; as he knew what stress and being afraid was like.

After all, all he had left was his bones after that divorce.

But that was his personal life, not mine.

I didn't know a thing, and this man was the closest thing to comfort that I could possibly get.

"Thank you, Doctor McCoy."

And maybe McCoy loved it when he was thanked, because until someone had shown affection and caring, he had only thought of this as his job.

Not his passion.

"No problem."


End file.
